she felt an intolerable suspense as to what awaited her. The vague terror
in her face was discerned by the dim light.
As she stepped forward Mr. Buck called out, "Als'on!"
"Yes, moster," Alston answered.
"What yer sneakin' in that thar' corner fer? Come up yere, you--" but his
vile sentence shall not be finished here.
Alston came forward with a statuesque face.
"Take this rawhide," was the order he received.
He put out his hand, and then, suddenly realizing the requisition that was
to be made on him, realizing that he was to flog Little Lizay, his
confidante and sympathizing friend, his hand dropped cold and limp.
"Yerdar' ter dis'bey me?" Mr. Buck bellowed. "I'll brain yer: I'll--"
"I didn't go ter do it, moster," Alston said, reaching for the whip. "I'll
whip her tell yer tells me ter stop."
"He didn't go ter do it, Mos' Buck," pleaded Little Lizay, frightened for
Alston. "He'll whip me ef yer'll give 'im the whip.--I's ready, Als'on."
She crossed her arms over her bare bosom and shook her long hair forward:
then dropped her face low and stood with her back partly turned to Alston,
who now had the whip.
"Fire away!" said the overseer.
Alston was not a refined gentleman, whose youth had been hedged from the
coarse and degrading, whose good instincts had been cherished, whose
faculties had been harmoniously trained. He was not a hero: he was not
prepared to espouse to the death Little Lizay's cause--to risk everything
for the shrinking, helpless woman and for his own manhood--to die rather
than strike her. He was only a slave, used from his cradle to the low and
cruel and brutalizing. But he had the making of a man in him: his nature
was one that could never become utterly base. But there was no help, no
hope, for either of them in anything he could do. He might knock Mr. Buck
senseless, sure of the sympathy of every slave on the plantation. There
would be a brief triumph, but he and Little Lizay would have to pay for it:
bloodhounds, scourgings, chains, cruelty that never slept and could never
be placated, were sure as fate. Resistance was inevitable disaster.
Alston did not need to stand there undetermined while he went over this: it
was familiar ground. Over and over again he had settled it: it was madness
for the slave to oppose himself to the dominant white man.
So, after his first unreasoning recoil, his mind was decided to adminster
the flogging. Would it not be a mercy to Little Lizay for him to do this
rather than that other hand, energized by hate, revenge and cruelty?
He raised his arm, with his heart beating hot and his manhood shrinking: he
struck Little Lizay's bare shoulders. She had nerved herself, but the blow,
after all, surprised her and made her start; and she had not quite
recovered herself when the second blow fell, so that she winced again; but
after that she stood like a statue.
"Harder!" cried Mr. Buck after the first few lashes. "None yer tomfool'ry
'bout me. She ain't no baby. Harder! I tell yer. Yer ain't draw'd no blood
nary time. Ef yer don't min' me I'll knock yer down. Yer whips like yer wus
'feard yer'd hurt 'er. Yer ac' like yer never whipped no nigger sence yer
wus bawn. Yer's got ter tiptoe ter it, an' fling yer arm back at a better
lick 'an that. Look yere: ef yer don't lick her harder I'll make Big Sam
lick yer till yer see sights."
At length the wretched work was ended, and the negroes made their way along
the moonlighted lanes to their cabins. These were single rooms, built of
unhewn logs, chinked and daubed with yellow mud. They had puncheon floors
and chimneys built of sticks and clay. Of clay also were the all-important
jambs, which served as depositories of perhaps every household article
pertaining to the cabin except the bedding and the stools. There might have
been found the household knife and spoon, the two or three family tin cups,
the skillet, the pothooks, sundry gourd vessels, the wooden tray in which
the "cawn" bread was mixed--pipe, tobacco and banjo.
On the Horton place the negroes cooked their own suppers after the day's
work was over. So for an hour every evening "the quarter" had an animated
aspect, for the cabins, standing five yards apart, faced each other in two
long lines. In each was a glowing fire, on which logs and pine-knots and
cypress-splints were laid with unsparing hand, for there was no limit to
the fuel. These fires furnished the lights: candles and lamps were unknown
at "the quarter."
Of course the windowless cabins, with these roaring fires, were stifling
in September; so the negroes sat in the doorways chatting and singing while
the bacon was frying and the corn dough roasting in the ashes or the
hoecake baking on the griddle. An occasional woman patched or washed some
garment by the firelight, while others brought water in piggins from the
spring at the foot of the hill on whose brow "the quarter" was located.
As Alston sat outside his door on a block, eating his supper by the light
of the high-mounting flames of his cabin-fire, Little Lizay came out and
sat on her doorsill. Her cabin stood opposite his. He recognized her, and
when he had finished his supper he went over to her.
"I didn't want ter strike yer, Lizay," he said. "Do you feel haud agin me
fer it?"
"No," Lizay answered: "he made yer do it. Yer couldn't he'p it. I reckon
yer'll have ter whip me agin ter-morrer night. I mos' knows my baskit won't
weigh no two hunderd an' fawty-seven poun's. 'Tain't fa'r ter 'spec' that
much from me: it's a heap more'n tother gals gits, an' mos' all uv um is
heap bigger'n me. I's small pertatoes." She laughed a little at her jest.
"Yer's some punkins," said Alston, returning the joke. "I'd give a heap ef
I could pick cotton like yer."
"Yer's improved a heap," said Little Lizay. "Ef yer keeps on improvin',
mayby yer'll git so yer kin he'p me arter 'while."
"Mayby so," Alston answered.
"But yer wouldn't he'p me, I reckon. Reckon yer'd he'p Edny Ann: yer likes
her better'n me."
"No, I don't."
"Reckon yer likes somebody in Virginny more'n yer likes anybody on this
plantation."
"I's better 'quainted back thar'," said Alston apologetically.
"But thar' ain't no use hankerin' arter them yer's lef 'hin' yer: reckon
yer won't never see um no mo'. Heap better git sati'fied yere. It's a long
way back thar', ain't it?"
"A mighty long way," said Alston; and then he was silent, his thoughts
going back and back over the long way.
Lizay recalled him: "Was yer sorry yer had ter whip me?"
"I was mighty sorry, Little Lizay," he replied with a strong tone of
tenderness that made her heart beat faster. "I would er knocked that white
nigger down, but it wouldn't er he'ped nothin'. Things would er jus' been
wusser."
"Yes," Lizay assented, "nothin' won't he'p us: ain't no use in nothin'."
"Reckon I'll go in an' go ter sleep," said Alston: "got ter git up early in
the mawnin'."
He _was_ up early the next morning, he and Little Lizay being again in the
cotton-field before dawn. All through the day there was, as before,
persistent devotion to the picking; then the holding on after dusk for one
more pound; the same result at night--the man up to the required figure,
the woman behind, this time forty-one pounds behind. Again she received a
cowhiding at Alston's hands.
"What yer mean by this yere foolin'?" Mr. Buck demanded in a rage of Little
Lizay. "Yer reckon I's gwine ter stan' this yere? Two hunderd an'
fawty-seven 'gin two hunderd an' six! It's all laziness an' mulishness.
I'll git yer outen that thar' notch, else I'll kill yer. Look yere:
ter-morrer, ef yer don't come ter taw, I'll give yer twict es many licks es
the poun's yer falls behin'."
Did this threat frighten Little Lizay out of her devotion?
"Two hunderd is 'nuff fer a little gal like yer," Alston said the next
morning. "Save my life, I can't pick no more'n a hunderd an' a few poun's
mo'. I wouldn't stan' ter be flogged ef I'd done my shar'."
"Got ter stan' it--can't he'p myse'f."
"I'd go ter town an' tell Mos' Hawton. I's tolerbul sho' he wouldn't 'low
yer ter git twict es many licks, nohow. Mos' Hawton's tolerbul good ter his
black folks, ain't he?"
"Yes, tolerbul--to the house-sarvants he's got in town; but he jist goes
'long mindin' his business thar', an' don't pay no 'tention sca'cely ter
his plantation. He don't want us ter come 'plainin' ter him. He's mighty
busy--gits a heap er practice, makes a heap er money. He went down the
river onct, more'n a hunderd miles, ter cut somethin' off a man--I fawgits
what 'twas--an' the man paid him hunderds an' hunderds an' hunderds--I
fawgits how much 'twas."
Here Little Lizay found that Alston was no longer listening, but was
absorbed with the cotton-picking.
That day, to save the pickers' time, their bacon and corn pones were
brought out to the field by wagon in wooden trays and buckets. There were
three cotton-baskets filled with corn dodgers. Alston and Little Lizay sat
not far apart while eating their dinners.
"I reckon I's gittin' 'long tolerbul well ter-day," he said. "Dun know for
sar-tin, but looks like the pickin' wus heap handier than at fus'. Look
yere, Lizay: ef I know'd I'd git more'n a hunderd I'd he'p yer 'long: I'd
give yer the balance. Couldn't stave off all the floggin', but I might save
yer some licks."
"Take kere yer ownse'f, Als'on. I don't min' the las' few licks: they don't
never hut bad es the fus' ones." This was Little Lizay's answer, given with
glowing cheek and eyes looking down. To her own heart she said, "I likes
him better'n he likes me. Reckon he can't git over mou'nin' fer somebody in
Virginny." She wondered if he had left a wife back there: she would test
him. "Reckon yer'll hear from yer wife any mo', Als'on?" she said.
"Yes, reckon I will. She said she'd write me a letter. She didn't b'long
ter my ol' moster: she b'longed ter Squire Minor. I tuck a wife off'en our
plantation. She's goin' ter ax her moster ter sell her an' the childun to
Mos' Hawton, and I's waitin' ter fin' out ef he'll sell 'um. I ain't goin'
ter cou't no other gal tell I fin's out."
"Yer hopes he'll sell her, don't yer?" Little Lizay asked with an anxious
heart.
"She wus a mighty good wife," said Alston, without committing himself by a
categorical answer. "Would seem like Ol' Virginny ter have her an' the
childun, but they's better off thar'. They couldn't pick cotton, I reckon.
Her moster an' mistiss thinks a heap uv her: she's one the cooks. I don't
reckon they kin spaw her."
"Don't yer, sho' 'nuff?"
"No, I don't reckon they kin, 'cause one Mis' Minor's cooks is gittin' ol'
an' can't see good--Aunt Juno. She wucks up flies an' sich into the cawn
bread. They wants ter put my wife into her place, but they can't git shet
with Aunt Juno: she's jis' boun' she'll do the white folks' cookin'. She
says thar' ain't no use in bein' free ef she can't do what she pleases:
they set her free Chrismus 'fo' las'. But law, Lizay! we mus' hurry up an'
get ter pickin'."
That night Lizay had gained on her basket of the preceding day by five and
a half pounds, and Alston had fallen behind his by four. But as he was
still over a hundred he escaped a flogging. Mr. Buck, being unable to
reckon exactly the number of lashes to which Little Lizay was entitled,
gave the rawhide the benefit of any doubt and ordered Alston to administer
seventy-five lashes.
The next day nothing noticeable occurred in the lives of these two slaves,
except that Alston's basket fell yet behind: Mr. Buck acknowledged it was a
"hunderd, but a mighty tight squeeze," while Little Lizay's had gained
three pounds on the last weight.
"Yer saved six lashes ter-day, Little Lizay," Alston said. He was evidently
glad for her, and her hungry heart was glad that he cared.
"An' yer didn't haudly git clear," she replied, adding to herself that
to-morrow she must be more generous with her help to Alston.
But on the morrow something occurred which dismayed the girl. She had
shaken her sack over Alston's basket, designing to empty a third of its
contents there, and then the remainder in her "pick." But the cotton was
closely packed in the sack, and almost the whole of it tumbled in a compact
mass into Alston's basket. He would not need so much help as this to ensure
him, so she proceeded to transfer a portion of the heap to her basket.
Suddenly she started as though shot. Some one was calling to her and making
a terrible accusation. The some one was Edny Ann: "Yer's stealin' thar': I
see'd yer do it--see'd yer takin' cotton outen Als'on's baskit. Ain't yer
shame, yer yaller good-fer-nuffin'? I's gwine ter tell." This was the
terrible accusation.
"Yer dun know nothin' 'tall 'bout it," said Little Lizay. "It's my cotton.
I emptied it in Als'on's baskit when I didn't go ter do it. I ain't tuck a
sol'tary lock er Als'on's cotton; an' I wouldn't, nuther, ter save my
life."
"Reckon yer kin fool me?" demanded the triumphant Edny Ann. Then she called
Alston with the _O_ which Southerners inevitably prefix: "O Als'on! O
Als'on! come yere! quick!"
"Don't, please don't, tell him," Little Lizay pleaded. "I'll give yer my
new cal'ker dress ef yer won't tell nobody."
But Edny Ann went on calling: "O Als'on! O Als'on! come yere!"
Little Lizay pleaded in a frantic way for silence as she saw Alston coming
with long strides up between the cotton-rows toward them.
"I wants yer ter ten' ter Lizay," said Edny Ann. "Her's been stealin' yer
cotton: see'd 'er do it--see'd 'er take a heap er cotton outen yer baskit
an' ram it into hern. Did so!"
Then you should have seen the man's face. Had it been white you could not
have discerned any plainer the surprise, the disappointment, the grief.
Lizay saw with an indefinable thrill the sadness in his eyes, heard the
grief in his voice.
"I didn't reckon yer'd do sich a thing, Lizay," he said. "I know it's
mighty haud on yer, gittin' cowhided ev'ry night, but stealin' ain't goin'
ter he'p it, Lizay."
"I never stole yer cotton, Als'on," Little Lizay said with a certain
dignity, but with an unsteady voice.
"I see'd yer do it," Edny Ann interrupted.
"I emptied my sack in yer baskit when I didn't go ter do it," Little Lizay
continued. "It wus my own cotton I wus takin' out yer baskit."
"Ef yer deny it, Lizay, yer'll make it wusser." Then Alston went up close
to her, so that Edny Ann might not hear, and said something in a low tone.
Lizay gave him a swift look of surprise: then her lip began to quiver; the
quick tears came to her eyes; she put both hands to her face and cried
hard, so that she could not have found voice if she had wished to tell
Alston her story. He went back to his row, and left her there crying beside
the pick-baskets. He returned almost immediately, shouldered his basket,
and went away from her to another part of the field, leaving his row
unfinished. He wondered how much cotton Lizay had taken from his basket--if
its weight would be brought down below a hundred; and meditated what he
should do in case he was called up to be flogged by the brutal overseer.
Should he stand and take the lashing, trusting to Heaven to make it up to
him some day? or should he knock the overseer senseless and make a strike
for freedom? Where was freedom? Which was the way to the free North? In
Virginia he would have known in what direction to set his face for Ohio,
but here everything was new and strange.
However, he had no occasion for a desperate movement that night. His basket
weighed one hundred and seven, while Little Lizay's had fallen lower than
ever before. Alston thought it was because she had missed her chance of
transferring the usual quantity of cotton from his basket.
The striking of Lizay had never seemed so abhorrent to him as on this
night, now that there was estrangement between them. She was already
humiliated in his sight, and to raise his hand against her was like
striking a fallen foe. She would think that he was no longer sorry--that he
was glad to repay the wrong she had done him.
In the mean time, Edny Ann had told the story of the theft to one and
another, and Lizay found at night the "quarter" humming with it. Taunts and
jeers met her on every hand. Stealing from white folks the negroes regarded
as a very trifling matter, since they, the slaves, had earned everything
there was: but to steal from "a po' nigger" was the meanest thing in their
decalogue.
"Stealin' from her beau!" sneered one negro, commenting on Little Lizay's
offence.
"An' her sweet'art!" said another.
"An' her 'tendin' like her lubbed 'im!"
"An' Als'on can't pick cotton fas', nohow, kase he ain't use ter
cotton--neber see'd none till he come yere--an' her know'd he'd git a
cowhidin'. It's meaner'n boneset tea," said Edny Ann.
"A heap meaner," assented Cat. "Sich puffawmance's wusser'n stealin' acawns
frum a blin' hog."
Over and over Little Lizay said, "I never stole Als'on's cotton;" and then
she would make her explanation, as she had made it to Edny Ann and Alston.
Often she was tempted to tell the whole story of how she had been all along
helping Alston at her own cost, but many motives restrained her. She
dreaded the jeers and jests to which the story would subject her, and
everything was to be feared from Mr. Buck's retaliation should he learn
that he had been tricked. Besides, she wished, if possible, to go on
helping Alston. She doubted, too, if he would receive it well that she had
been helping him. Might he not gravely resent it that through her action
such a pitiable part in the drama had been forced on him? Then there was
something sweet to Little Lizay in suffering all alone for Alston--in
having this secret unshared: she respected herself more that she did not
risk everything to vindicate herself, for this she could do: the steelyard
to-morrow would demonstrate the truth of her story.
But the morrow came, and she went out to the field, her story untold, a
marked woman. Yet she was not comfortless. The something that Alston had
told her the previous day was making her heart sing. This is what he told
her: "While yer wus stealin' from me, Lizay, I wus he'pin' yer. I put a
ha'f er sack in yer baskit ter-day, an' a ha'f er sack yistiddy--kase I
liked yer, Lizay."
She took her rows beside Alston's as usual, determined to watch for a
chance to help him. But when he moved away from her and took another row,
Lizay knew that the time had come. She couldn't stand it to have him strain
and tug and bend to his work as no other hand in the field did, only to be
disappointed at night. She could never bear it that he should be flogged
after all she had done to save him from the shame. She could never live
through it--the cowhiding of her hero by the detested overseer. Yes, the
time had come: she must tell Alston.
She went over to where he had begun a new row. "Yer don't b'lieve the tale
I tole yistiddy, Als'on: yer's feared I'll steal yer cotton ter-day," she
said.
"I don't wish no talk 'bout it, Lizay," Alston said. His tone was half sad,
half peremptory.
"Yer mustn't feel haud agin me ef I tells you somethin', Als'on. Yer's been
puttin' cotton in my baskit unbeknownst ter save me some lashes, an' yer
throw'd it up ter me yistiddy. Now, look yere, Als'on: I's been he'pin' yer
all this week, ever since Mr. Buck said yer got ter git a hunderd. Ev'ry
day I's he'ped yer git up ter a hunderd."
Alston had stopped picking, both his hands full of cotton, and stood
staring in a bewildered way at the girl. "Lizay, is this a fac'?" he said
at length.
"'Tis so, Als'on; an' ef yer don't lemme he'p yer now yer'll fall 'hin' an'
have ter git flogged."
"An' ef yer he'p me, yer'll fall shawt an' have ter git flogged. Oh, Lizay,
thar' never was nobody afo' would er done this yer fer me," Alston said,
feeling that he would like to kiss the poor shoulders that had been
scourged for him. Great tears gathered in his eyes, and he thought without
speaking the thought, "My wife in Virginny wouldn't er done it."
"So yer mus' lemme he'p yer ter-day," said Little Lizay.
"I'll die fus'," he said in a savage tone.
"Oh, yer'll git a whippin', Als'on, sho's yer bawn."
"No: I won't take a floggin' from that brute."
"Oh, Als'on, yer jis' got ter: yer can't he'p the miserbulness. No use
runnin' 'way: they'd ketch yer an' bring yer back. Thar's nigger-hunters
an' blood-houn's all roun' this yer naberhood. Yer couldn't git 'way ter
save yer life."
"Look yere, Lizay," Alston said with sudden inspiration: "le's go tell
Mos' Hawton all 'bout it. Ef he's a genulman he'll 'ten' ter us. They won't
miss us till night, an' 'fo' that time we'll be in Memphis. Yer knows the
way, don't yer?"
"Yes," Lizay said; "an' I reckon that's the bes' thing we kin do--go tell
moster an' mistis. But, law! I ought er go pull off this yere ole homespun
dress an' put on my new cal'ker."
"I reckon we ain't got no time ter dress up," said Alston. "We mus' start
quick: come 'long. Le's hide our baskits fus' whar' the cotton-stalks is
thick."
This they did, and then started off at a brisk pace, their flight concealed
by the tall cotton-plants. They reached Memphis about eleven o'clock, and
found Dr. Horton at home, having just finished his lunch. They were
admitted at once to the dining-room, where the doctor sat picking his
teeth. He had never seen Alston, as the new negroes had been bought by an
agent.
"Sarvant, moster!" Alston said humbly, but with dignity.
"Howdy, moster?" was Little Lizay's more familiar salutation.
"I's Als'on, one yer new boys from Ol' Virginny."
"You're a likely-lookin' fellow," said the doctor, who was given to
dropping final consonants in his speech. "I reckon I'll hear a good report
of you from Mr. Buck. You look like you could stan' up to work like a
soldier. But what's brought you and Little Lizay to the city? Anything gone
wrong?"
"Yes, moster," said Alston--"mighty wrong. Look yere, Mos' Hawton: when I
come on yer plantation I made up my min' ter sarve yer faithful--ter wuck
fer yer haud's I could--ter strike ev'ry lick I could fer yer. When I hoed
cawn an' pulled fodder I went 'head er all the han's on yer plantation. But
when I went ter pick cotton I wusn't use ter it. I wuckt haud's I could,
'fo' day an' arter dark. Mos' Hawton, I couldn't pick a poun' more'n I pick
ter save my life. But I wus 'hin' all t'other han's. Then Mos' Buck wus
goin' ter flog me ef I didn't git a hunderd: then Little Lizay, her he'ped
me unbeknownst: ev'ry day she puts cotton in my baskit ter fetch it ter a
hunderd, an' that made her fall 'hin' las' year's pickin'; then ev'ry night
she was stripped an' cowhided; but she kep' on he'pin' me, an' kep' on
gettin' whipped. I dun know what she dun it fer: 'min's me uv the Laud on
the cross."
Dr. Horton knew what she did it for. His knightliness was touched to the
quick. The story made him wish as never before to be a better master than
he had ever been to his poor people. He asked many questions, and drew
forth all the facts, Lizay telling how Alston was helping her while she was
helping him. Dr. Horton saw that here was a romance in slave-life--that the
man and woman were in love with each other.
"Well, if you can't pick cotton," he said to Alston, "what can you do?"
"Mos' anything else, moster. I kin do ev'rything 'bout cawn; I kin split
rails; I kin plough; I kin drive carriage."
"Could you run a cotton-gin?"
"Reckon so, moster: the black folks says it's tolerbul easy."
"Well, now, look here: you and Lizay get some dinner, an' then do you take
a back-trot for the plantation. I'll sen' Buck a note: no, he can't more'n
half read writin'. Well, do you tell him, Alston, to put you to ginnin'
cotton: Little Sam mus' work with you a few days till you get the hang of
the thing; an' then I want you to show that plantation what 'tis to serve
master faithfully. You see, I believe in you, my man."
"Thanky, moster. I'll wuck fer yer haud's I kin. Please God, I'll sarve yer
faithful."
"Of cou'se, Lizay, you'll go back to pickin' cotton, an' don't let me hear
any mo' of you' nonsense--helpin' a strappin' fellow twice you' size. An'
tell Buck I won't have him whippin' any my negroes ev'ry night in the week.
Confound it! a mule couldn't stan' it. If I've got a negro that needs
floggin' ev'ry night, I'll sell him or give 'im away, or turn 'im out to
grass to shif' for himself. I'll be out there soon, an' 'ten' to things. If
anybody needs a floggin', tell Buck to send 'im to me. Tell the folks to
work like clever Christians, an' they shall have a fus'-rate Christmas--a
heap of Christmas-gifts."
"Yes, moster."
"Do you an' Lizay want to get married right away, or wait till Christmas?"
Alston and Little Lizay looked at each other, smiling in an embarrassed
way.
"But, moster," said Alston, "I's got a wife an' fou' childun in Ol'
Virginny, an' I promused I'd wait an' wouldn't git morred ag'in tell she'd
write ter me ef her moster'd sell her; an' I was goin' ter ax yer ter buy
'er."
"You needn't pester yourself about that. I got a letter for you the other
day from her," the doctor said, fumbling in his pockets.
"Yer did, sah?" Alston said with interest.
"Yes: here it is. Can you read? or shall I read it to you?"
"Ef yer please, moster."
Then Dr. Horton read:
"MY DEAR B'LOVED HUSBUN': Miss Marthy Jane takes my pen in han' ter let yer
know I's well, an' our childun's well, an' all the black folks is tolerbul
well 'cept Juno: her's got the polsy tolerbul bad. All the white folks
'bout yere is will 'cept mistis: her's got the dumps. All the childun say,
Howdy? the black folks all says, Howdy? an' Pete says, Howdy? an' Andy
says, Howdy? an' Viny says, Howdy? an' Cinthy says, Howdy? an' Tony Tucker
says, Howdy? and Brudder Thomas Jeff'son Hollan' says, Howdy? Last time I
see'd Benj'man Franklins Bedfud, he says, ''Member, an' don't fawgit, the
fus' time yer writes, ter tell Als'on, Howdy?'
"Yer 'fectionate wife, CHLOE."
"P.S. Mistis says her can't spaw me, so 'tain't no use waitin' no longer
fer me. 'Sides, I got 'gaged ter git morred: I wus morred Sundy 'fo' las'
at quat'ly meetin'. Brudder Mad'son Mason puffawmed the solemn cer'mony,
an' preached a beautiful discou'se. Me an' my secon' husbun' gits 'long
fus'-rate. I fawgot ter tell yer who I got morred to. I got morred to
Thomas Jeff'son Hollan'."
"So you're a free man," said Dr. Horton, folding the letter and handing it
to Alston. "You an' Little Lizay can get married to-day, right now, if you
wish to. Uncle Moses can marry you: he's a member of the Church in good an'
regular standin': I don't know but he's an exhorter, or class-leader, or
somethin'. What do you say? Shall I call him in an' have him tie you
together?"
"Thanky, moster, ef Little Lizay's willin'.--Is yer, Lizay?"
"I reckon so," said Lizay, her heart beating in gladness. But she
nevertheless glanced down at her coarse field-dress and thought with
longing of the new calico in her cabin.
So Uncle Moses was called in, and Mrs. Horton and all the children and
servants.
"Uncle Moses," said Dr. Horton, "did you ever marry anybody?"
"To be sho', Mos' Hawton. I's morred--Lemme see how many wives has I morred
sence I fus' commenced?"
"Oh, I don't mean that;" and Dr. Horton proceeded to explain what he did
mean.
"No," said Moses. "I never done any that business, but reckon I could: I's
done things a heap hauder."
"Well, let me see you try your han' on this couple."
"Well," said Uncle Moses, "git me a book: got ter have a Bible, or
hymn-book, or cat'chism, or somethin'."
The doctor gravely handed over a pocket edition of _Don Quixote_, which
happened to lie in his reach.
Uncle Moses took it for a copy of the _Methodist Discipline_, and made
pretence of seeking for the marriage ceremony. At length he appeared
satisfied that he had the right page, and stood up facing the couple.
"Jine boff yer right han's," he solemnly commanded. Then, with his eyes on
the book, he repeated the marriage service, with some remarkable
emendations. "An' ef yer solemnly promus," he said in conclusion, "ter lub
an' 'bey one 'nuther tell death pawts yer, please de Laud yer lib so long,
I pernounces boff yer all man an' wife."
Then the mistress looked about and got together a basket of household
articles for the new couple. Bearing this between them, Alston and Little
Lizay went back to the plantation and to their unfinished rows of cotton,
happy, poor souls! pathetic as it seems.
SARAH WINTER KELLOGG.
THE BASS OF THE POTOMAC.
Some twenty-five years ago Mr. William Shriver, a primitive pisciculturist,
took from the Youghiogheny River eleven black bass, and conveyed them in
the tank of the tender of a locomotive to Cumberland, in the coal-region of
Western Maryland. There he deposited them in the Potomac, with the
injunction which forms the heraldic motto of the State of
Maryland--_Crescite et multiplicamini_. The first part of this excellent
precept they obeyed by proceeding to devour all the aboriginal fish in the
river, and waxing extremely hearty upon the liberal diet. The second they
performed with a diligence so commendable that the name of them in the
river became as legion, and the original possessors of the waters were
steadily extirpated or took despairingly to small rivulets, and led ever
after a life of undeserved ignominy and obscurity. There were bass in the
river from the Falls of the Potomac, near Georgetown, to a point as near
its source as any self-respecting fish could approach without detriment to
the buttons on his vest by reason of the shallowness of the water. They
were in all its tributaries, and in fact monopolized its waters completely.
Had the supply of small fish for food held out, it is impossible to say to
what extent they would have increased. They might in their numerical
enormity have rivalled the condition of that famous river, the Wabash,
which in a certain season of excessive dryness became so low that a local
journal of established veracity described the fish as having to stand upon
their heads to breathe, and while in that constrained attitude being pulled
by the inhabitants like radishes in a garden.
It has been contended by some ichthyologists that the black bass does not
eat its own kind, but the spectacle which I recently beheld of a
four-pounder, defunct and floating on the water, with the tail and half the
body of a ten-ounce bass sticking out of his distended mouth, affords but
inadequate confirmation of their views. I sat upon the bass in question,
and rendered a verdict of "choked to death, and served him right." He had
swallowed the younger fish, who, for aught he knew to the contrary, or
cared, might have been his own son; and his confidence in his capacity
being ably supported by his appetite, he undertook a contract to which he
was unequal in the matter of expansion. He couldn't disgorge, being in the
predicament of the boa-constrictor who swallows a hen head first, and finds
her go against the grain when he would fain reconsider the subject. The
head of the inside fish was partially digested, but that process had
imparted no gratification to either party, and both were defunct, mutually
immolated upon the altar of gluttony. It is not an uncommon thing to find
them dead in that condition, for their appetites are ravenous, and lead
them into indiscretions more or less serious in their consequences.
There can be no doubt of their having regarded as a delicate attention the
action some few years since of the Maryland Fish Commissioner in placing
several thousand young California salmon in the river. Those salmon have
never been seen or heard of since; but, although the bass for some time had
a guilty look about them, it is hardly fair to let them remain under so
grievous an imputation as is implied in the whole responsibility for the
fate of the California emigrants. The fact is, that at Georgetown the
Potomac River makes a very abrupt change in its grade, and the Great Falls,
as they are called, are both picturesque and arduous of passage. The
salmon, being of luxurious habit, betakes him each year to the seaside, and
at the end of the season returns in a connubial frame of mind to the spot
endeared to him by his early associations. It is quite possible that these
particular salmon when on their way to the purlieus of marine fashion were
somewhat discouraged at the jar and shock incident to their transit over
the Falls. They may have concluded that the locality was unpropitious for
the return trip, and then, consulting with salmon whose lines had been cast
in more pleasant places, they may have ascended rivers of more conspicuous
natural attractions and more agreeable to fish of cultivated habits.
The habits of the black bass may be described as generally bad. It is a
fish devoid of any of the cardinal virtues. It is ever engaged in
internecine war, and will any day forego a square meal for the sake of a
fight. It gorges itself like a python, and when hooked is as game as a
salmon, and quite as vigorous in proportion to size. In the Potomac it has
been known to weigh as much as six pounds, but bass of that weight are very
rare, from three to four pounds being the average of what are known as good
fish. These afford excellent sport, and are taken with a variety of bait.
The habitués of the river commonly employ live minnow, chub, catfish,
suckers, sunfish--in fact, any fish under six inches in length. The bass
has also a well-marked predilection for small frogs, or indeed for frogs of
any dimensions. It sometimes rises well at a gaudy, substantial fly or a
deft simulation of a healthy Kansas grasshopper; but fishermen have noticed
that the largest fish despise flies, much as a person of a full roast-beef
habit may be supposed to turn up his nose at a small mutton-chop. In other
rivers they take the fly quite freely, but in the Potomac they have had
that branch of their education greatly neglected. In the matter of
vitality they are simply extraordinary: they cling to life with a tenacity
that very few fish exhibit. In the spring or fall, when the water and the
air are at a comparatively low temperature, a bass will live for eight or
ten hours without water. The writer has brought fifty fish, weighing on an
average two and three-quarter pounds, from Point of Rocks to Baltimore, a
distance of seventy-two miles, and after they had been in the air six hours
has placed them in a tub of water and found two-thirds of the number
immediately "kick" and plunge with an amount of energy and ability that
threw the water in all directions. These fish had been caught at various
times during the day, and as each was taken from the hook a stout leather
strap was forced through the floor of its mouth beneath its tongue, and the
bunch of fish so secured allowed to trail overboard in the stream. They
were thus dragged all day against a powerful current, but never showed any
symptoms of "drowning." In the evening they were strung upon a stout piece
of clothes-line, and after lying for some time on the railway platform were
transferred to the floor of the baggage-car, and so transported to the
city. It is quite evident that we do not live in the fear of Mr. Bergh. But
what is one to do? The fish is not to be discouraged except by the
exhibition of great and brutal violence. In fact, bass will not be induced
to decently decease by any civilized process short of a powerful shock from
a voltaic pile administered in the region of their _medulla oblongata_. Of
course, one cannot be expected to carry about a voltaic pile and go hunting
for the medullary recesses of a savage and turbulent fish. On the other
hand, one may batter the protoplasm out of a refractory subject by the aid
of a small rock, but it won't improve the fish's looks or cooking
qualities. It may seem like high treason to mention, moreover, at a safe
distance from Mr. Bergh, that euthanasia in animals designed for the table
does not always improve their quality, and in fact that the linked misery
long drawn out of a protracted dissolution imparts a certain tenderness and
flavor to the flesh that it would not otherwise possess. Should that
excellent and most estimable gentleman regard this statement with a
sceptical eye, let it be here stated that the bass should be recently
killed, split, crimped and broiled to a delicate brown, with a little good
butter and a sprinkling of pepper, salt and chopped parsley. Should he
pursue the subject upon this basis, he will not be the first gentleman who
has surrendered his convictions and compounded a culinary felony upon
favorable terms.
Below Harper's Ferry there is one of the most picturesque reaches of the
Potomac River. From the rugged heights that frown upon that historic and
lovely spot, where the Shenandoah strikes away through the pass that leads
to the broad and beautiful Valley of Virginia, and where John Brown's
memory struggles through battered ruins and the invading smoke of the
unhallowed locomotive, the river chafes from side to side of the stern
defile that hems it in and curbs its restless waters. Great walls of dark
rocks, crested by serried ranks of solemn pines, stand guard above its
fitful, surging flood, and against the dark blue calm and misty depth of
its gorge the pale smoke rises in a quiet column above the mills and houses
that nestle by the river's bed. Huge boulders stem the current, and the
rocks stand out in shelves and rugged ridges, around which the stream
whirls swiftly and sweeps off into broad dark pools in whose green,
mysterious depths there should be noble fish. Below, the river widens and
has long placid reaches, but for the most part its banks are precipitous,
and the deep water runs along the trunks and bares the roots of great trees
whose branches stretch far out over its surface. Occasionally, the
mountains recede and form a vast amphitheatre, clad in primeval forest, and
there are islands on which vegetation runs riot in its unbridled luxury,
and weaves festoons of gay creepers to conceal the gaunt skeletons of the
endless piles of dead drift-wood. All is in the most glorious green--a very
extravagance of fresh and brilliant color--relieved with the bright
purples and tender leafing of the flowering shrubs and vines that
intertwine among its heavy jungle. Upon the broad, flat rocks one may see
dozens of stolid "sliders," or mud-turtles, some of great size, basking in
the sun like so many boarders at a country hotel. They crowd upon the rocks
as thickly as they can, and blink there all day long unless disturbed by
the approach of a boat, when they dive clumsily but quickly. Occasionally,
one sees an otter, with seal-like head above the surface of the water,
swimming swiftly from haunt to haunt in pursuit of the bass; and small
coteries of summer ducks fly swiftly from sedge to sedge.
The acoustic properties of the river would make an architect die with envy.
The light breeze bears one's conversation audibly for half a mile; one
hears the splash of a fish that jumps a thousand yards away; and the grim
cliffs at the foot of which the canal winds in and out take up the
profanity of the towpath and hurl it back and forth across the river as if
it was great fun and all propriety. The stalwart exhortations and clean-cut
phraseology of the mule-drivers and the notes of the bugles go ringing over
to Virginia's shore, and fill the air with cadences so sweet and musical
that they sound like the pleasant laughter of good-humored Nature, instead
of the well-punctuated and diligent ribaldry of the most profane class of
humanity in existence. It is perfectly startling and frightful to hear an
objurgation of the most utterly purposeless and ingeniously vile
description transmitted half a mile with painful distinctness, and then
seized by a virtuous and reproachful echo and indignantly repelled in
disjointed fragments.
"Y'ill take care, sorr, an' sit fair in the middle of the shkiff," said Mr.
McGrath as I got into his frail craft at five o'clock in the morning on the
bank of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal near Point of Rocks. "It's
onconvanient to be outside of the boat whin we're going through them locks.
There were a gintleman done that last year, an' he come near lavin' a lot
of orphans behind him."
"How was that, McGrath?" said I.
"Begorra! the divil a child had he," he replied.
"But do you mean that he was drowned?" I asked.
"Faith, an' he was that, sorr--complately."
I promised Mr. McGrath that I would observe his instructions carefully, and
that gentleman, after placing the rods, live-bait bucket, luncheon-basket
and other articles on board, took his seat in the bow, and we proceeded. We
had two boats for my companion and myself, and an experienced man in each.
Mr. McGrath had fallen to my lot, and my companion had a darkey named Pete.
We were to go up the canal some four miles, and then, launching the boats
into the river, were to fish slowly down with the current. We had a horse
and tow-rope, and a small boy, mounted on the animal, started off at a
smart trot. It was quite exhilarating, and the boats dashed along merrily
at a capital rate. A gray mist hung low on the river, and thin wraiths of
it rose off the water of the canal and crept up the mountain-side,
shrouding the black pines and hiding the summit from view. Beyond, the tops
of the hills on the Virginia shore were beginning to blush as they caught
the first rays of sunrise, and the fish-hawk's puny scream echoed from the
islands in the stream. It was a lovely morning, and promised a day, as Mr.
McGrath observed, on which some elegant fish should die. After a few delays
at locks, in which canal-boats took precedence of us, we reached our point
of transshipment, hauled the boats out on the bank, and our horse drew them
sleigh-fashion across field and down to and out into the water.
I had a light split bamboo rod, a good silk line and a fair assortment of
flies. Mr. McGrath had a common bamboo cane, a battered old reel, and the
value of his outfit might be generously estimated at half a dollar. In his
live-bait bucket were about a hundred fish, varying in length from two to
six inches. He did not prepare to fish himself, but was watching me with
the deepest attention. He held the boat across the stream toward the
opposite shore, and by the time we dropped down on a large flat rock I was
ready. I got out, and there being a pleasant air stirring, I made my casts
with a great deal of ease and comfort. There was a deep hole below the
rocks, bordered on both sides by a swift ripple--as pretty a spot as ever a
fly was thrown over. I sped them over it in all directions, casting fifty
and sixty feet of line, and admiring the soft flutter with which they
dropped on the edge of the ripple or the open water. Mr. McGrath was
surveying the operation critically, nodding his head in approval from side
to side, and uttering short ejaculations of the most flattering nature. I
kept whipping the stream assiduously, so satisfied with my work and the
style of it as to feel confident that no well-regulated fish could resist
it. But there was no appearance of a rise: not a sign appeared on the water
to show even the approach of a speculative fish. I was about to note the
fact to Mr. McGrath when that gentleman remarked, "Begorra! but it's
illigant sport it'd be if the bass 'ud only bite at them things!"
"Bite at them?" said I, turning round: "of course they'll bite at them."
"Sorra bit will they, sorr. It's just wondherin' they are if them things up
above is good to ate, but they're too lazy to step up an' inquire. Augh, be
me sowl! but it's the thruth I tell you. Now, if it was a dacent throut
that were there, he'd be afther acceptin' yer invite in a minit; but them
bass--begorra! they're not amaynable to the fly at all."
Now, if there is anything that I have been brought up to despise, it is
fishing with "bait." Fly-fishing I have learned to regard as the only
legitimate method of taking any fish that any sportsman ought to fish for,
and fishing with a worm and a cork I always looked upon as equal to
shooting a partridge on the ground in May. I did not believe Mr. McGrath,
and I told him, as I resumed my graceful occupation, that I didn't think
there were any fish there to catch. The idea of their rejecting flies
served up as mine were was too preposterous.
"Well," said he, "ye may be right, sorr: there may be none there at all;
but I'll thry them wid a bait, anyhow."
In another minute Mr. McGrath was slashing about right and left a bait
which to my disordered vision looked as big as a Yarmouth bloater. He threw
it in every direction with great vigor and precision, and, as I could not
help noticing, with very little splashing. I turned away with emotion, and
continued my fly-fishing. Presently I heard an exclamation from Mr.
McGrath, quickly succeeded by an ominous whirring of his reel.
"Luk at the vagabone, sorr! luk at him now! Run, ye divil ye! run!" he
cried as he facilitated the departure of the line, which was going out at a
famous rate. "Bedad! he's a fine mikroptheros! Whisht! he's stopped.--Take
that, ye spalpeen ye!"
As he said this he gave his rod a strong jerk, that brought the line up
with a "zip" out of the water in a long ridge, and the old bamboo cane bent
until it cracked. At the same moment, about a hundred and fifty feet away,
a splendid fish leaped high and clear out of the water with the line
dangling from his mouth. Mr. McGrath had struck him fairly, and away he
went across stream as hard as he could tear.
"Take the rod, sorr, while I get the landing-net. Kape a tight line on him,
sorr: niver let him deludher ye. It's an illigant mikroptheros he is,
sure!"
He returned from the boat in a moment with the landing-net, but absolutely
refused to take back his rod: "Sorra bit, sorr: bring him in. It's great
fun ye'll have wid the vagabone in that current! No, sorr: bring him in
yerself, sorr: ye'll niver lay it at my door that the first fish hooked
wasn't brought in."
I didn't need any instructions, and as the fish ran for a rock some
distance off, I brought him up sharply, and he jumped again as wickedly as
he could full three feet out of the water, and came straight toward us with
a rush. It was no use trying, I couldn't reel up quick enough, and he was
under the eddy at our feet before I had one-third of the line in.
Fortunately, he was securely hooked, and there was no drop out from the
slacking of the line. He was in about twelve feet of water, and as I
brought the line taut on him again he went off down stream as fast as ever.
I had the current full against him this time, and I brought him steadily up
through it, and held him well in hand. I swept him around in front of Mr.
McGrath's landing-net, but he shied off so quickly that I thought he would
break the line. Away down he went as stiffly and stubbornly as possible,
and there he lodged, rubbing his nose against a rock and trying to get rid
of the hook. Half a dozen times I dislodged him and brought him up, but he
was so wild and strong I did not dare to force him in. At last he made a
dash for the ripple, and I gave him a quick turn, and as he struck out of
it Mr. McGrath had his landing-net under him in a twinkling, and he was out
kicking on the rock. He weighed four pounds six ounces, and furnished
conclusive evidence that a bass of that weight can give a great deal of
very agreeable trouble before he will consent to leave his element.
"What was it," said I, "that you called him when you struck him just now?"
"What did I call him, sorr? A mikroptheros, sorr."
"And for Goodness' sake, McGrath, what is a mikroptheros?"
"Begorra! that's what it is," said Mr. McGrath, throwing the bass overboard
to swim at the end of its leathern thong.
"Well!" said I in amazement. "I never heard such a name as that for a fish
in all my life!--a mikroptheros!"
"Divil a more or less!" said Mr. McGrath decidedly. "The Fish Commissioner
wor up here last week, an' sez he to me, sez he, 'It's a mikroptheros, so
it is.'--'What's that?' sez I.--'That!' sez he; and he slaps him into an
illigant glass bottle of sperrits, as I thought he was goin' to say to me,
'McGrath, have ye a mouth on ye?' an' I as dhry as if I'd et red herrin's
for a week. 'Yis,' sez he to me, 'that's the right name of him;' and wid
that he writes it on a tag, and he sends it off, this side up wid care, to
the musayum. Sure I copied it: be me sowl, an' if ye doubt me word, here
it is."
Mr. McGrath handed me a piece of paper torn off the margin of a newspaper,
on which he had written legibly enough, "_Micropteros Floridanus_" I read
it as gravely as I could, smiled feebly at my own ignorance, and returned
it to him, saying, "Upon my word, McGrath, you are perfectly right. What a
blessing it is to have had a classical education!"
"Sorra lie in it," said he proudly as he replaced the slip in the crown of
his hat; "an' it's meself that's glad of it."
I can but throw myself upon the mercy of every respectable disciple of the
art before whom this confession may come when I say that during this
conversation I was employed in taking off my flies and in substituting
therefor a strong bass-hook and a cork, after the effective fashion of Mr.
McGrath. When this never-to-be-sufficiently-despised device was ready I
took from the bucket a small and unhappy sunfish, immolated him upon my
hook by passing it through his upper and lower lips, and cast him out upon
the stream. The red top of the cork spun merrily down the current and out
among the oily ripples of the deep water below, but Mr. McGrath could beat
me completely in handling his. I noticed that I threw my fish so that it
struck hard upon the water, "knocking the sowl out of it," as he said,
while he threw his hither and thither with the greatest ease, always taking
care to do it with the least possible amount of violence, and keeping it
alive as long as possible. However, it was not long before my cork
disappeared with a peculiar style of departure abundantly indicative of the
cause, to which I replied by a vigorous "strike." My cork came up promptly,
and with it my hook, bare. The sunfish had found a grave within the natural
enemy of his species, and I had missed my fish.
"Divvle a wondher!" said Mr. McGrath in reply to a remark to that
effect--"being, sorr, that ye're not familiar wid their ways. Ye see, sorr,
he comes up an' he nips that fish be the tail, an' away wid him to a
convanient spot for to turn him an' swallow him head first, by rason of his
sthickles an' fins all p'intin' the other way. Whin he takes it, sorr, jist
let him run away wid it as far as he likes, but the minit he turns to
swallow it, an' says to himself, 'What an illigant breakfast this is, to be
sure!' that minit slap the hook into his jaw, an' hould on to him for dear
life."
These excellent instructions I obeyed with no little difficulty. My cork
came up in the back water under the rock on which I stood, and there,
almost at my very feet, it disappeared. I could not believe that a bass had
taken it, but all doubt on the subject was dispelled by the shrill whir of
my reel as the fine silk line spun out at a tremendous rate. The fish had
darted across the current, and only stopped after he had taken out over two
hundred feet of line.
"Now, sorr, jist make a remark to him," whispered Mr. McGrath; and I struck
as hard as I could. "Illigant, begorra!" said he as the fish, maddened and
frightened, leaped out of the water. "Look at him looking for a dentist,
bedad!"
It was peculiarly delightful to feel that fish pull--to get a firm hand on
him, and have him charge off with an impetuosity that involved more line or
broken tackle--to feel that vigorous, oscillating pull of his, and to note
the ease and strength with which he swam against the powerful current or
dashed across the boiling eddy below.
It did not last long, however: he soon spent himself, and Mr. McGrath
received him with a graceful swoop of his landing-net and secured him. Four
more soon followed, all large fish--two to the credit of Mr. McGrath and
two to myself. When caught they are of a dark olive-green on the back and
sides, the fins quite black at the ends, and the under side white. They
change color rapidly, and as their vitality decreases become paler and
paler, turning when dead to a very light olive-green. The mouth in general
form resembles that of the salmon family, but the size is much larger in
proportion to the weight of the fish, and the arrangement of the teeth is
different. With its great strength and its "game" qualities it is not
surprising that it should afford a good deal of what is known as "sport."
An attribute of man which is equivalent to a strong natural instinct is his
disposition to "do murder." This may account for his love of "sport," or it
may only be an hereditary trait derived from the period when he had not yet
concerned himself with agriculture, but slew wild beasts and used his
implements of stone to crack their bones and get the marrow out. The
instinct to slay birds, beasts and fishes is certainly strong within us,
whatever be its remote origin, and it is very little affected by what we
are pleased to call our civilization. Indeed, it is hardly to be believed
that one of the primitive lords of creation, stalking about in the
condition of gorgeous irresponsibility incident to the Stone Period, would
have lowered himself to the level of the kid-gloved example of the present
stage of evolution who fishes in Maine. It cannot be supposed that the
pre-historic gentleman would have disgraced himself by catching fish he
could not use. He never caught ten times as many of the _Salmo fontinalis_
as he and all his friends could eat, and then threw the rest away to rot.
This kind of thing has prevailed to a great extent, but natural causes have
nearly brought it to an end. The wholesale slaughter of the fish has
reduced their numbers, and a surfeit of indecent sport can no longer be
indulged in. Such fishermen should be confined by law to a large aquarium,
in which the fish they most affected could be taught to undergo catching
and re-catching until the gentlemen had had enough. The fish might grow to
like it eventually, and submit as a purely business matter to being caught
regularly for a daily consideration in chopped liver and real flies. But
how our ancestor, just alluded to, would despise the sport of this
progressive age! With his primitive but natural acceptation of Nature's law
of supply and demand, what would he think of the gentlemen who killed fish
to rot in the sun or drove a few thousand buffaloes over a precipice--all
for sport? It is probably the propensity to "do murder" which accounts for
these things, for "sport," within decent and proper limits, is a good
thing, and has been favored by the best of men in all ages--fishing
particularly, because it predisposes to pleasant contemplation, to equity
of criticism in the consideration of most matters of life, and to no little
self-benignancy. No one knew this better (although Shakespeare himself was
a poacher) than Christopher North, and where more fitly could the brightest
pages of the _Noctes Ambrosianæ_ have been conceived or inspired than when
their author was, rod in hand, on the banks of a brawling Highland
trout-stream?
The fish had ceased to bite where we were, and at Mr. McGrath's suggestion
we dropped down the stream to where my friend and his darkey were. His
experience with the flies had been similar to mine, but he had too much
regard for his fine fly-rod, he said, to use it for "slinging round a bait
as big as a herring." He had taken it to pieces and put it away. He was
sitting with his elbows on his knees and a brier-root pipe in his mouth,
content in every feature, a perfect picture of Placidity on a Boulder.
"Given up fishing?" I asked.
"Not much," he replied: "I've caught nine beauties. Pete does all the work,
and I catch the fish."
Sure enough, he had Pete, who was one of the best fishermen on the river,
fishing away as hard as he could. Whenever Pete hooked a fish my friend
would lay down his pipe and play the fish into the landing-net. "It's
beastly sport," he said: "if I wasn't so confoundedly lazy I couldn't stand
it at all.--Hello, Pete! got him?"
"Yes, sah--got him shuah;" and Pete handed him the rod as the line spun
out. We watched the short struggle, and started down stream, leaving him to
his laziness just as he was settling back in the boat for a nap and telling
Pete not to wake him up unless the next was a big one.
By noon we had thirty-two fish--a very fair and satisfactory experience. We
were about to change our position when we were detained by a tremendous
shouting from the other boat, about half a mile above us.
"What's the matter with them, McGrath?" said I.
"Bedad, sorr! I think it must be that bucket there in the bow," he replied,
pointing to the article, which contained our luncheon.
I was quite satisfied that it was, and there being a cool spring about
forty feet above us on the bank on the Virginia side, we disembarked. In
the excitement of fishing I had not thought of luncheon, but now I found I
had a startling appetite. So had my friend and his assiduous darkey when
they came in and reported twenty fish.
"Yes," he said, "I know we ought to have a good many more, but Pete is so
lazy. It was all I could possibly do to catch those myself."
With a flat rock for a table, the grass to sit upon, and the bubbling music
of the little stream that flowed from the spring as an accompaniment, the
ham and bread and butter, the pickles and the hard-boiled eggs, and even
the pie with its mysterious leather crust and its doubtful inside of dried
peaches, tasted wonderfully well. We did not venture out upon the river
again until three o'clock, our worthy guides agreeing that the fish do not
bite well between noon and that hour, and both of us being disposed to rest
a little. My friend stretched himself on the thick grass, and when his pipe
was exhausted went fast asleep, and snored with great precision and power
to a mild sternutatory accompaniment by Mr. McGrath and Pete. I employed
myself in bringing up my largest bass from the boat to sit for his picture
in a little basin in the rock under the spring. After he had floundered
himself into a comparatively rational and quiet condition, much after the
fashion of a gentleman reluctant to have his portrait taken under the
auspices of the police, I succeeded in committing him to paper. He was a
handsome fish, and eminently deserving of the distinction thus conferred
upon him.
Sleeping in the grass on a summer afternoon is a bucolic luxury I never
fully appreciated. When I stirred up my friend he was red, perspirational
and full of lively entomological suspicions. He slapped the legs of his
pantaloons vigorously in spots, moved his arms uneasily, took off his
shirt-collar and implored me to look down his back.
"There's nothing there," I reported. "I know how it is myself: a fellow
always feels that way when he goes to sleep in the grass."
"Any woodticks here?" he asked.
"Begorra! plenty," said Mr. McGrath, sitting up. "They et a child," he
added with perfect seriousness of manner, "down here below last summer."
McGrath's eyes twinkled when my friend began to talk of peeling off and
jumping into the river after a general search. He was finally reassured,
and we started out. We had even better sport than in the morning, and
accumulated a splendid string of fish each. On the way down we passed two
boats in which were some gentlemen, evidently foreigners, engaged in
throwing flies with apparently the same results that we had attained in the
morning.
"Do you know who those people are?" I asked McGrath.
"I dunno, sorr," said he, "but I think they are from one of the legations
at Washington. They come up for a day's fishin' all along of the illigant
fishin' a party from the same place had one day last week I suppose;" and
he smiled.
"How was that, McGrath?"
"It wor last week, sorr; and I wor up the river be meself, an' I had thirty
illigant fish thrailin' undher the boat comin' down. It wor just where they
are I seen two boats full of gintlemen, an' I dhropped alongside. They wor
swells, sure. They had patint rods, an' patint reels, an' patint flies, an'
patint boots, an' patint coats, an' patint hats, an' the divil knows what.
Bedad! they wor so fine that sez I to meself, sez I, 'Bedad! if I wor a
bass I'd say, "Gintlemen, don't go to no throuble on my account: I'll git
into the boat this minit."'--'Been fishin', me man?' sez one of them to me.
'Sorra much, yer honor,' sez I.--'It's very strange, you know,' sez he,
'that they don't bite at all to-day. You haven't caught any, have
you?'--'Well, sorr,' sez I, 'I did dhrop on a few little ones as I come
down.'--'Oh, did you, really?' sez another one, puttin' a glass in his eye
and standin' up excited like. 'Why, my good man,' sez he, 'be good enough
to 'old them up, you know. We'd like so much to see them!'--Wid that, sorr,
I up wid the sthring as high as I could lift it, an' it weighin' nigh onto
a hundred pound. Well, they were that wild they didn't know what to make of
it. One of them sez, sez he, 'The beggar's been a hauling of a net, he
has.'--'Divvle a bit more than yerself,' sez I. 'There's me impliments,
an', what's more, if ye wor to stay here till next week the sorra fish can
ye ketch, because, bedad! ye dunno how.' Wid that they put their heads
together, and swore it ud disgrace them to go home to Washington without a
fish, you know; an' how much would I take for the lot? Sez I, 'I have
twenty-five more down here in a creel in the river: that's fifty-five,' sez
I. 'Ye can have the lot for twinty dollars.'--'It's a go,' sez he; an' ever
since that there's letters comin' up from Washington askin' if the wather
is in good ordher, and what is the accommodations? Bedad! I'm wondherin' if
them as we passed wouldn't be likin' a dozen or two on the same terms?"
Nothing finishes up a day's bass-fishing better than a good hot supper of
broiled bass, country sausage, fried ham and eggs, and coffee. The cooking
can generally be managed, and the appetite is guaranteed. _Experto crede_.
W. MACKAY LAFFAN.
THE CHRYSALIS OF A BOOKWORM.
I read, O friend, no pages of old lore,
Which I loved well, and yet the wingèd days,
That softly passed as wind through green spring ways
And left a perfume, swift fly as of yore,
Though in clear Plato's stream I look no more,
Neither with Moschus sing Sicilian lays.
Nor with bold Dante wander in amaze,
Nor see our Will the Golden Age restore.
I read a book to which old books are new,
And new books old. A living book is mine--
In age, two years: in it I read no lies--
In it to myriad truths I find the clew--
A tender, little child; but I divine
Thoughts high as Dante's in its clear blue eyes.
MAURICE F. EGAN.
A LAW UNTO HERSELF.